Page 4 of The Inconvenient Compromise
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Lucian hadn’t meantto hurt her feelings. He’d been flippant, and they were not known enough to one another for her to understand how irreverent he could often be or that the boldness she had displayed was quite appreciated by him, in fact. So he did something he rarely had during his life— he admitted that he was in the wrong.
“I must apologize, Fiona. That is not what I meant, at all. It was never my intent to imply that Kenworth was above you. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is you who would have rued that particular match. His staid character would have slowly suffocated the life out of you. There is a fire in you, Fiona Trimble, that, despite your best efforts and those of Lady Bruxton, has not yet been extinguished.”
She did not reply, instead keeping her gaze focused on some point beyond the window while her posture was so rigid it would be a miracle if she did not bounce right off the seat and into the less than clean floor of the carriage. But the set of her jaw softened, a slight lessening of the tension in her face.
Glimpsing a hint of success with that tactic, Lucian continued, “Kenworth would have bored you into an early grave. You need a man who will challenge you and not simply scold you for having a bit of spirit and frown at you in eternal consternation when you fail to meet his exacting standards,” he explained. “I realize this is not what you had envisioned as the outcome of tonight’s subterfuge, but I assure you that I will endeavor to make it as bearable as possible.”
Her head whipped around, her eyes widening with surprise. “You sound almost kind.”
“I am capable of kindness, Fiona. I will be as kind to you as you are kind to me.” It sounded rather threatening. It certainly sounded opportunistic. He’d been known to be both at times. Of course, the truth was somewhat more benign. He would likely be kind to her regardless, at least to a point. Certain assumptions had been made by him regarding the nature of her character. His actions, to that point, had been based on the impulsively reached notion that she was a victim of Lady Bruxton—bullied and exploited. The truth could be very different. She might be just as conniving and dishonest as her former traveling companion. But he knew Charlotte Farraday and that woman would never surround herself with those who might ever be her equal or pose a threat to her in any way. In short, either she had misjudged Miss Trimble, or he was currently misjudging her. Only time would tell.
The carriage began to slow. A glance through the parted curtains of the coach showed that they were entering the village proper. They would check in at the inn first and then make their way to the church for the local vicar to perform their marriage ceremony. From there, they would return to London. Rathmore House would remain a mystery to them both, at least until their marriage and circumstances surrounding it had been exhausted by the gossips.
He spared another glance at the young woman who was barely known to him. It seemed he was set to endure many mysteries in his life.
When the carriage halted in the inn yard, he disembarked quickly before offering his assistance to Miss Trimble. Her hand felt impossibly small and delicate in his much larger one. The slight tremor in her fingers revealed just how anxious she was. He offered her a reassuring smile. “It will be fine, Fiona. We shall get a room and have a bite to eat. Then you may refresh yourself before we make our way to the church. For a contribution, the vicar will undoubtedly be willing to overlook any irregularities in how we have gone about things.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I know I have been less than gracious. You would have been well within your rights to disavow me entirely. And yet you have offered to make a very noble sacrifice so that I might salvage my reputation and spare my family considerable shame. I am not without gratitude despite my churlishness.”
Lucian frowned, staring down at the smattering of freckles on her nose and the perfect cupid’s bow of her lips. “I have no need of your gratitude, Miss Trimble—Fiona.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
Lucian smiled, knowing she would not fully understand his answer. “Everything else, Fiona. All of it and all of you.”
THREE
Friday—the wedding night…
The old man, with his paunch hanging well over his breeches and a thin flap of hair combed over his balding pate, eyed them speculatively. He removed a monocle from his eye and set to polishing it with a handkerchief so filthy it surely deposited more dirt than it could ever wipe away. “I’ll need your names if you please.”
“Lord Lucian Ainsworth Maxwell, Earl of Rathmore.”
Beside him, Fiona tried to still the trembling of her hands. “Miss Fiona Katherine Trimble.”
“And you are both unwed persons above the age of consent? That be sixteen here in Scotland,” the man supplied helpfully. He placed the monocle over one eye, his bushy brows and sagging lids holding it in place. The eye behind it, grotesquely magnified now, roved over Fiona in a manner that could, under the most incredible generosity, be called impudent, to say the very least.
“Yes, we are both unwed and well beyond sixteen,” the earl replied. His lack of patience with the old man's antics was quite clear from the tone of his voice.
The man cackled, his gaze settling leeringly upon Fiona’s bosom. “Aye, that you are. Now, you’re both here of your own free will and accord? No one is forcing you to wed this blackguard, are they, lass?”
“No one is forcing me. I am here of my own free will,” Fiona replied.Not enthusiastically, but willingly, at least.
The ‘priest,’ and if he was any sort of holy man she would eat her bonnet, began filling in the marriage certificate. “Fiona Katherine, you say? And is that Trimble with an ‘i’ or an ‘e', miss?”
“Fiona Katherine and, as to the spelling, it’s the former rather than the latter,” she answered.
He nodded, dabbed the tip of his quill against his tongue, and then began scratching it over the parchment again. “And you, my lord? Might you spell your very illustrious name for a poor country cleric like myself?”
Fiona’s mind wandered as the earl, less than graciously, spelled out his name for the aging priest. It was not the sort of wedding she had imagined. It wasn’t the groom she had imagined either. Her poor mother would be so terribly disappointed to see her married in such a havy-cavy manner. Though the fact that he came with a title would go a long way towards her soothing her ruffled feather. Her father likely would not care so long as it didn’t cost him anything. In truth, he’d probably be happy to have her gone from his sight.
She was entirely lost in thought. Her mother’s disappointment, the ramifications for her younger sister, what might happen when they returned to London, and all of society saw that she had set her cap for one earl and wed another—those were the things occupying her mind.
“Fiona?”
“Miss? If you’ve no wish to wed this brute—”
